Life's A Forest On the Forest Park Elementary school playground I built towns with my friends out of fallen autumn leaves. We would welcome others into our “home”, dirt floor swept by our hands, kitchen gouged out by the dragging of a stick discovered near by. Between groves of trees and the squealing laughter of peers I discovered a microcosm of the great wide world. I learned that kickball was a boy sport, but chose to play it anyway. I plucked caterpillars from knobby bark, only to be told by the paraprofessionals outside that they were not to be touched. I didn't understand, but obediently let them crawl away from my scolded hands. Most of my early learning was done not in a classroom chair but on the course circle rug or outside in the dusty sand of the playground.
That is what I remember about my early learning, the experiences. This was a time when learning about something meant being in it. We raised meal worms in corn meal and learned about the stages of life. We had a true indian pow-wow lead by the looked-up-to fifth graders filled with authentic games and dishes. There were field trips to the recycling center, Smith's Castle and the trip of all trips, Ellis Island. The leg work for the Ellis Island trip was painstaking for the teachers but a magical reward for us after months of learning about its history. We were asked to perform true mini freeze frames in fourth grade of stories told from immigrants before we went on the adventure, so when we got there we could imagine ourselves walking in the antique leather shoes shown in the display cases. It is hard not to learn when you are making treasurable memories. My teachers were all substitute parents during the school day, often accidentally being called Mom instead of Mrs. so and so. This was a time when both learning and teaching had few boundaries and I was free to discover through tactile, auditory, and visual means.
All of my elementary school teachers encouraged and highlighted in me what I was capable of however, only one still does to this day. Her name is Mrs. Beland, I call her Queen Bee (one of many epithets I have for her), and she was my fifth grade dance and drama teacher. Mrs. Beland is a listener and to someone transitioning into the life of a "tween" that is a valuable thing. Not only was she there to hear all of the snafus and snags I had as a sensitive student, but she did so with such genuine interest I never felt like a hassle. When I was with her, I always felt like I was doing okay. She made me feel like I was in the right place at the right time and things would eventually work themselves which always helped me feel ready to learn in my regular classroom. The nest made for me at elementary school by my teachers was one of the hardest things I have ever had to leave.
It was a long fall into my sixth grade classroom and I remember landing with a thud. Everywhere I looked for positive feedback, loving teachers, and experiential learning I was met with seriousness and rigor. My middle school was all about discipline and teaching us how to be adults. I woke up at an ungodly hour, slugged my way through seven classes a day, and walked with a burden of teenage angst. I can remember watching my classmates as they too, struck with culture shock, clung to their friends for stability. It was a scary place that middle school. My teachers focused on quantity and due dates teaching me quickly the reality of stress. I was never relaxed, never comfortable in my own skin, and was often given feed back from my peers that I wasn't fun because I was "too" focused on my academics. One teacher taught me to find light in this dark period. He is Mr. Gilmartin, my eighth grade history teacher, and bequeather of my first C. He was tough, but he let us feel human. He took us outside to do field studies which bridged history with science, he explained that due dates were there and sometimes we wouldn't meet them but it was no reason to cry, and he showed me that even though I was doing well I could always try to do even better.
Although my time in middle school was not as treasured as that spent in the nest of Forest Park, it was the push I needed to fly. I have humility for having braved the dark ages of middle school and strength for weathering the storm of confusion. Now I associate education with seeking out mentors. It is they who have taught me to soar, and they who will show me how to help others fly along too.
Professor Fogleman
Life's A Forest
On the Forest Park Elementary school playground I built towns with my friends out of fallen autumn leaves. We would welcome others into our “home”, dirt floor swept by our hands, kitchen gouged out by the dragging of a stick discovered near by. Between groves of trees and the squealing laughter of peers I discovered a microcosm of the great wide world. I learned that kickball was a boy sport, but chose to play it anyway. I plucked caterpillars from knobby bark, only to be told by the paraprofessionals outside that they were not to be touched. I didn't understand, but obediently let them crawl away from my scolded hands. Most of my early learning was done not in a classroom chair but on the course circle rug or outside in the dusty sand of the playground.
That is what I remember about my early learning, the experiences. This was a time when learning about something meant being in it. We raised meal worms in corn meal and learned about the stages of life. We had a true indian pow-wow lead by the looked-up-to fifth graders filled with authentic games and dishes. There were field trips to the recycling center, Smith's Castle and the trip of all trips, Ellis Island. The leg work for the Ellis Island trip was painstaking for the teachers but a magical reward for us after months of learning about its history. We were asked to perform true mini freeze frames in fourth grade of stories told from immigrants before we went on the adventure, so when we got there we could imagine ourselves walking in the antique leather shoes shown in the display cases. It is hard not to learn when you are making treasurable memories. My teachers were all substitute parents during the school day, often accidentally being called Mom instead of Mrs. so and so. This was a time when both learning and teaching had few boundaries and I was free to discover through tactile, auditory, and visual means.
All of my elementary school teachers encouraged and highlighted in me what I was capable of however, only one still does to this day. Her name is Mrs. Beland, I call her Queen Bee (one of many epithets I have for her), and she was my fifth grade dance and drama teacher. Mrs. Beland is a listener and to someone transitioning into the life of a "tween" that is a valuable thing. Not only was she there to hear all of the snafus and snags I had as a sensitive student, but she did so with such genuine interest I never felt like a hassle. When I was with her, I always felt like I was doing okay. She made me feel like I was in the right place at the right time and things would eventually work themselves which always helped me feel ready to learn in my regular classroom. The nest made for me at elementary school by my teachers was one of the hardest things I have ever had to leave.
It was a long fall into my sixth grade classroom and I remember landing with a thud. Everywhere I looked for positive feedback, loving teachers, and experiential learning I was met with seriousness and rigor. My middle school was all about discipline and teaching us how to be adults. I woke up at an ungodly hour, slugged my way through seven classes a day, and walked with a burden of teenage angst. I can remember watching my classmates as they too, struck with culture shock, clung to their friends for stability. It was a scary place that middle school. My teachers focused on quantity and due dates teaching me quickly the reality of stress. I was never relaxed, never comfortable in my own skin, and was often given feed back from my peers that I wasn't fun because I was "too" focused on my academics. One teacher taught me to find light in this dark period. He is Mr. Gilmartin, my eighth grade history teacher, and bequeather of my first C. He was tough, but he let us feel human. He took us outside to do field studies which bridged history with science, he explained that due dates were there and sometimes we wouldn't meet them but it was no reason to cry, and he showed me that even though I was doing well I could always try to do even better.
Although my time in middle school was not as treasured as that spent in the nest of Forest Park, it was the push I needed to fly. I have humility for having braved the dark ages of middle school and strength for weathering the storm of confusion. Now I associate education with seeking out mentors. It is they who have taught me to soar, and they who will show me how to help others fly along too.